


The Ice Man and the Honest One

by hikarufly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Slash, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikarufly/pseuds/hikarufly
Summary: SPOILERS FOR 4x03Mycroft is dealing with what happened in Sherringford, and Lestrade tries to follow Sherlock's lead in "taking care" of the eldest Holmes brother. But there is something going on under the surface that both parts cannot quite grasp or understand... or can they?This is my first Mystrade "attempt", my first slash fic so please be kind :PFrom Polly_Chatterly's prompt via FB!English is not my first language.





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fusterya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fusterya/gifts), [Polly_Chatterly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Chatterly/gifts).



A red light. A gun. A man on his knees and then...

 

«No, no! Stop!»

The man is weeping.

«I'm sorry...» he moans.

«It's alright.» says a deep, familiar voice.

«I'm so sorry...» the man continues «remember me...»

A gunshot.

«NO!»

 

The iron-like smell of blood. The sludge of flesh, bones, tissues.

 

Mycroft woke up suddenly, covered in cold sweat and nauseated. He tried to catch his breath again, clutching to the bedsheets, with a hand on his chest. His heart was racing fast from panic. He looked around, confused, as he could not find the red lights, the screens with Moriarty's face on, the stone-grey furniture or the guns. Where was his brother? Where was John Watson?

 

Then he remembered. He was in his own home, in his own big four-poster bed. He stood up, still breathing heavily, and sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. When he felt a little bit better, and was too awake, or afraid, to get back to bed, he put on his dressing gown. He would not admit it looked much better on Sherlock... of course not. He moved down the corridor, without turning on the lights, and arrived at the upper gallery. The paintings had been cleaned from the fake blood and restored. Stupid Sherlock, compromising the family portraits like this... only to get information! He got to the kitchen, only lightened up by the moonlight outside.

 

He had moved in in that Holmes residence many years ago, but still many years after the fire at Musgrave. His parents preferred the cottage, Sherlock preferred London, so he was alone.

Mycroft opened the fridge: under the cold but bright light of the appliance a big slice of Black Forest cake was standing almost triumphantly on a plate, as to defy the man in front of it. Just one bite, Mycroft. What could possibly go wrong?

 

Before he knew it, the slice was gone and the empty yet spotted plate was on the sink. He contained a wave of self loathing and a tear of rage and got to his home's gym. In the middle of the night, in his best silk pyjamas, Mycroft ran for two long hours, sweating and panting just as he had woken up from his dream. Dawn reminded him he needed a shower and to call the limo to get to the office.

Fuck the government. Fuck policies. Fuck the office. He would be in the club: no one could or would talk to him, it would be perfect.

 

The sipped his whiskey, after abandoning the newspaper at the further end of the room, and resisting the strong urge to crash it against the plain dark wood panels on the walls . He could not even go back home to enjoy a pastiche film. Damn Sherlock, damn Sherringford, damn Eurus and damn himself. He sit back in his armchair and hid his face behind his hands and long fingers. He wanted so badly to sob, but couldn't: for will or though, he could not tell.

The phone rang, or best vibrated, and he knew he could not avoid the office all day. Mycroft had to rush to a dark and damp police facility, to deal with spies and state secrets and all that. He was exhausted, but only a keen eye could see it.

 

The keen eyes were two, in fact, under short grizzled hair and up to a reassuring working class smile. The smile was not for Mycroft, but for a colleague, but the gaze, that one was Sherlock's doing. “Mycroft: make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he think he is”, that's what he had said. Of course, maybe he only meant in that moment, after the so called incident. And Lestrade did it, he did make sure he had been looked after then, but it seemed that that lean, tall and upper-class snob needed still to be taken care of.

«Look, Mr Holmes...» started the officer.

Mycroft turned to him, or best pretended to turn to him, he was already looking. He almost thought of asking him to call him by his Christian name, but protocol was... well, let's say imperative.

«Yes, Inspector?» Mycroft replied, in his snobbish sort of way.

«Me and the others... well, it's been a long day, and we're going down the pub for a pint or two. I wondered if you wanted to join us.» Lestrade explained. «You seemed to need one as much as we do.» he added.

The spontaneity of the working class, how charming: that was Mycroft's first thought. Then he recalled his glass of whiskey at the Diogenes club, the fact that he did not smashed it where he wanted to.

«I suppose it would not be so bad, after all. I may use some liquor of sorts.» said the oldest Holmes brother, with a thankful and tired smile he did not intend to show.

Gosh, he did say yes. Lestrade was not really expecting it. Nevertheless, he smiled again and gestured him to follow the rest of the team.

 


	2. The pub

Mycroft was distraught.

«Good God!» he exclaimed.

On the threshold of the pub, he could see the scene he was stepping into: working class pub, working class people, and especially... hooligans. The game was on, but not the one he and Sherlock liked, the one that required brains from him, and legwork from his brother, no: football was on. Lestrade's colleagues were simply yet wildly delighted to have gotten to the pub on time to see the first kick, and the boss indulged a moment too on that realisation... until he saw the disgusted look on Mycroft's face.

«Smelled something funny?» asked the policeman. Mycroft looked at him almost outraged. Lestrade's smile died in a second. Nevertheless, the eldest Holmes followed Greg inside, walking as slowly and carefully as he could, registering every single bit of detail around him, in an automatism he could not abstain from.

«What are you having?» tried to inquire Lestrade, talking to Mycroft, shouting over the noise. Holmes turned slightly to him but did not look at him, concentrated on something.

«A 50 years old Glenlivet vintage whisky, please.» he replied.

The barman went white and mumbled that he did not have it, as only one bottle cost £ 20.000: probably the amount of spirits in his pub wasn't worth that much, he added.

«Oh, for God sakes... I'm having whatever you're having.» added Mycroft, and Lestrade asked for two pints of Guinness.

Mycroft looked for the best seat: as far away as possible from the noise, near the best exit (not the one on the alley where all the drunk went to puke), far enough from the restrooms and at an angle where Greg could see the game, and his pals, but also where Mycroft could avoid to watch people or screens. Lestrade noted the kindness that the eldest Holmes had not done consciously, and handed him his pint with a thankful nod.

«Drinking the black stuff as Irish labourers, are we?» Mycroft commented when the inspector sat next to him. His voice was mellifluous as ever, even though his snobbish attitude was looking more a pretence than usual.

«I like beer, and I like Guinness.» Lestrade simply said, with a shrug. «Nothing more, nothing less.»

Mycroft seemed almost fascinated by this concept, at least ironically.

«You people are so simple.» he stated.

«I bet you must be “people” too, Mr Holmes.» Greg replied, raising the glass as to toast something or someone and drinking.

Mycroft was about to reply, but something that had in fact attracted his gaze while they were ordering their drinks.

«Something is going on here.» he murmured. Lestrade didn't quite catch that.

«There is a gambling house downstairs... or rather, there is an illegal dog fight. You'd better get your colleagues to get there and arrest the lot. I believe it is the same gang that you tried to catch about a month ago.» Mycroft explained, and Lestrade was mesmerised.

«You mean the Beecham Brothers? How do you...?» the policeman asked.

«It is incredibly obvious of course. Just as you look at the barman sleeves or at the upper corner of the door, or even at the girl waiting to go to the bathroom over there.» Mycroft continued, almost bored by his own intelligence.

Lestrade, knowing that the Holmes “thing” was only to be trusted, excused himself briefly and sat up to go to his subordinates. Mycroft watched the Inspector try to explain to the drunken company of colleagues what was going on, but most of them were off duty and wasted enough to be insubordinate. The Inspector, outraged as much as the eldest Holmes entering the place, had to get back to his table.

«You need to help me.» he simply said. «If what you say is true, there is not a minute to spare, and I'm on my own.»

«Aren't the lot suppose to follow you through thick and thin?» asked Holmes, with a raised eyebrow.

«Yes, but as soon as they hear that some Holmes is involved, they simply stop listening.»

Mycroft seemed to be, again, annoyed by the lack of cleverness in the masses. He stood up, not too keen on the legwork as ever, but showing the way to the Inspector.

«I will close all possible exits, you knock out the only members of the gang on this floor to avoid them attracting attention or warn the rest.» Holmes explained, indicating the three people, one of which was the girl by the bathroom. «And please, be discreet and don't make a fuss. This suit is very difficult to remove the stains from.»

Lestrade nodded and got to work immediately. Mycroft was quite impressed by the focus and precision of the inspector, as he got to the counter, discussed briefly with the barman and forced him, with almost only words, to surrender the keys. He closed all the exits, dismissed some protests from drunk customers, and found Lestrade again on the stairs to the lower floor.

«Ready?» asked the inspector, a hand on his gun under the jacket.

Mycroft had taken his umbrella from the table and, with a small twitch, he pulled up the handle and drew out a thin yet sharp blade. He was the most elegant swordsman Lestrade had ever seen, and he loved Swashbuckler movies.

«Ready.» Holmes replied.

 

Lestrade's colleagues had to intervene, in the end. Mycroft and Lestrade had done their best, but when the gang came upstairs, as all other escape routes were obstructed. When one of the other inspectors and their subordinates had recognized the gang, they forgot the game and the pints and were able to dominate the entire group and to arrest them all.

While backup and on-duty policemen arrived, Lestrade and Mycroft found themselves outside the pub, the first with a cigarette at his mouth, the other desperate to smoke one but not willing to ask for it. He simply stared around, deducing little unimportant facts about the people and discovering that Lestrade was a divorcee with a young babysitter girl waiting for him to come back home and probably offer herself as a distraction for the night. He didn't know why but the idea was really unpleasant: such pathetic little human beings.

Lestrade looked at the man next to him, that now was smoothing his hair, and offered a light. Mycroft wanted to decline, at first, and then took it, letting the inspector light the smoke. He took a deep puff from it, relaxing as it went out of his nostrils and mouth.

«Thank you, Inspector.» he said.

«You're welcome, Mr Holmes.» Lestrade replied. He took another moment, and then added: «You were very good down there. With the sword-fighting and all.»

Mycroft almost choked in surprise, and turned to him with raised eyebrows.

«You really think so?»

Lestrade nodded. Mycroft smiled a little, delighted by the idea of being a sort of musketeer and continued smoking. Then remembered the last time he had unsheathed that blade and thought of Eurus, and the family. He was not good, not at all, that was what Mother said. The inspector could not read him, of course, but felt like something bleak had squeezed the other man's heart.

«I wonder how long it would have taken to catch the gang.» Lestrade continued, puffing away a little grey cloud.

«Probably until Sherlock would find it interesting, I guess.» Mycroft replied, thankful of that cigarette in his hand.

Lestrade nodded with a little laugh and finished his smoke.

«Yeah, probably.» he confirmed, putting out the cigarette. He was also about to offer a lift home for Mycroft, but a limo had suddenly appeared. The inspector looked a bit lost, for a moment, as he was not able to finish the job without Holmes. Mycroft resisted a moment, and then put his cigarette off too.

«I owe you one, Inspector Lestrade.» he said, moving towards the limo.

«Owe me what?» asked the other.

«A pint.» replied the Ice Man, with an altogether very warm smile.

Lestrade smiled back and said goodbye. When paperwork was done and he got back home to the sleeping children, he just said thanks and goodnight to the babysitter, no matter how tempting she tried to be and how badly she worked to get into his pants.

Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade had a very strange yet vivid focus on what had happened that evening, but especially on one thing: the feeling that all was well, that there was nothing to worry about, that after long days and long nights of feeling out of breath, there was a calm and refreshing breeze again.

 


	3. The school

Greg Lestrade took a deep breath. That was perhaps the toughest of challenges.

«Daddy, daddy! Could you braid my hair please??»

The voice of the youngest of his two daughters, Catherine, was so sweet that her father could not really say no. Her eldest sister Elizabeth had brushed her sibling's dark brown hair at her best. Fortunately, all was ready for their return to school: they were staying in a mixed boarding school, as their mother had insisted for. He thought they were too young, at 9 and 7 years old, but she had no intention of letting them go to the public school nearby. Middle class ideas about upper-middle class, no doubt. Greg would have been happy with a nice school that could teach them well, but he knew he had not much time to care for the girls the way he wanted, with the police and all, and his ex-wife had a full time job too. Lizzie and Cathy were happy, anyway, and every weekend it was daddy's or mummy's home, in the end.

«Please, daddy, we're going to be late again!» said the eldest, with a frown that was very much his ex-wife's. He sighed and tried to put a braid together. Not much success there, but Cathy seemed more than proud of that. She kissed her thanks on his cheeks, and the trio went out to get on the car and outside the city.

Priory School in the outskirts of London was a few miles from the main road and immersed into a large wooded park. The early 1900s red-bricked building was tall and solemn, but not fierce. Elizabeth got out of daddy's car as he did, helping her little sister to follow her. Her two braids at the side of her head were not particularly symmetric, but the little girl was proud and happy.

Greg took their little suitcase with a couple of things the school had asked for, and walked his daughters to the entrance. To his surprise, he saw one of the most prominent MPs of the House of Lords with a little, stranded and sad-looking boy hand in hand.

Cathy ran to the boy with pure and innocent delight and a bright smile on her face. The boy was about Lizzie's age but looked younger.

«My daddy braided my hair today, isn't it wonderful?» she asked to the boy, as to start a conversation. She was so proud. «My daddy's a policeman. What is your name?»

Lestrade and his eldest went straight after her and the direct and noble gaze of the MP was on them as a curse.

«Duke...» said Lestrade, not really knowing how to address him. His little boy came a little forward, without letting his father's hand go.

«Arthur. My name is Arthur.» he murmured.

Before even Cathy could say more, a familiar voice came from the corridor.

Lestrade was most surprised to see Mycroft in a place like that: he did not seem the kind of man to mix with humanity, never mind children.

The eldest Holmes was even more astounded to see Lestrade there, but regained his aplomb in a second.

«Mylord, I think it is time for us to go back to the City. We still have that... cabinet meeting to attend» Mycroft declared, in his most elegant tone. “Cabinet meeting” seemed a code word for something.

The MP looked at the man in front of him as to let him know he needed a moment to say goodbye to his son. It took a moment longer for Mycroft to realise, and a small Lestrade girl too.

Cathy pitched Mycroft's tailored trousers.

«I think Arthur must say goodbye to his daddy, please come with us.» she said, and let go of him only when her father asked her to.

«Let go of Mr Holmes, Cathy.» he mumbled. Mycroft disguised his eloquent look of indignation with a sugared smile.

«Do you know him, daddy?» she asked, frowning. Lizzie took her hand.

«Come, Cathy. The teachers are waiting for us.» said her older sister.

«Would you excuse me a moment, Mr Holmes?» Lestrade seemed so awkward the only thing Mycroft could do was nod.

He watched the inspector walk his girls to the teacher, handing the suitcase. He hugged both the girls and kissed their cheeks. Lizzie took a deep breath, but did not cry even if she wanted to. Cathy promised to be good, thanked him for the braids again and was soon distracted.

Lestrade got back to Holmes much relieved, but visibly somewhat incomplete.

«You're not good with children.» that sentence from Lestrade was no question but a statement.

«Never been» Mycroft specified. He was indeed thinking of his own days in boarding school: fat, bullied, alone. Alone made him stronger. «Not good with humans in general.»

His umbrella was at his side, and now Lestrade knew it hid a long, slim _rapier_ sword. He almost could see it under the layers of fabric and metallic trestle.

«I wouldn't say so.» Greg crossed his arms. Mycroft smirked and snorted a little elegant laughter.

«And why is that?» he inquired.

«Well, I know you think you're not good with strange cases like you Holmes brothers.» Lestrade explained. The smirk died in the other man's face: Eurus, Sherlock... no he was no good for his siblings, not at all. «But you're good with noble men and women, you work with them every day. And my daughter Catherine seemed to like you.»

«I imagine she is the kind of child that talks to every stranger.» Mycroft declared, looking at his feet and at the end of his umbrella.

«Every stranger who needs helps, it seems.» Lestrade replied. Mycroft looked up and met his gaze.

He perfectly knew what was going on between them, but was determined to pretend he didn't. “Be unaware of yourself, Mycroft. Caring is not an advantage. Look what happened when you cared.”

«Here on business, then.» continued the inspector. Something inside him, that he believed was Sherlock's request, needed to let that man relax and stop being always on the watch.

«Yes. The Duke of Holdernesse is one of the most prominent politicians of the State. He wants his son to go to Eton, of course, but before the boy needs to... meddle with the commoners. The people like privileges as long as they look cool on the magazines, you see. Otherwise they ask why the upper class should have more then them.» Mycroft explained, more at ease with politics. «So little Arthur must stay here. The Duke has divorced recently from the mother of the child, and she has gone abroad with his new partner. The boy must stay at school, of course.»

«Arthur seemed a bit gloomy, now that I think about it.» Lestrade commented. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

«Where did you go to school?» the Holmes brother asked.

«To very ordinary, state-funded institutes. Then I went to university before making my way into the force.» Lestrade explained.

«University?» continued Mycroft, ironically impressed.

«Yes. With a scholarship.» Lestrade clarified. «As my daughters are here with one of those each.»

Mycroft considered the idea.

«You did go to Eton, I imagine.» continued the inspector. Mycroft was about to reply a very snobbish “of course”, almost offended of the minimum doubt concerning the matter, but the Duke was ready to go.

Lestrade looked a bit lost at the idea of losing also Mycroft's company, but it was just a moment. The inspector got into his role and offered a hand to the eldest Holmes.

«You still owe me that pint.» he said, before he could even realise it. Mycroft's smile when he shook that hand was more genuine, until the Duke could see his face: his smirk was back soon enough.

«Have a good day, Inspector.»

Lestrade did not linger on watching them leave, looking instead at the big staircase that his daughters had climbed.

Mycroft did spare a glance, and wondered.

 


	4. The phone call

Staring at his report, Lestrade blinked a couple of times and rubbed his face. There was no way he could concentrate on putting into words that terrible accident he had discovered during his policing duties. He had never been too struck by or too impressed by a woeful murder or by a tragic death, no matter how gruesome, and yet that day he didn't want to recollect the day he had at work to write the report and be done with it. Maybe he was tired, or simply wanted to retain the story a little more before putting it into words.

What he did not expect was to receive a phone call after a long night of with corpses and drug dealing. The number on the display was a private one.

«Lestrade.» he presented himself, as he was used to by the Force.

«This is Mycroft Holmes.» the other man presented himself. Lestrade straightened on his chair, as though the eldest Holmes had walked inside the room.

«How may I help you Mr Holmes?» Greg asked. There was a moment's hesitation from the other side.

«It seems I may do something for you, Mr Lestrade.» Mycroft replied. Lestrade was stranded by not being called “Inspector” as usual. The voice of Mr Holmes was lower in volume then.

«I should not be calling the police, so you are listening as a private citizen... a concerned party, if you prefer.» his tone wanted to be casual, but there was worry beneath it. «Do you understand my meaning, Mr Lestrade?»

The policeman nodded. Then, as he realised he still was alone, replied:

«Yes, I do. But what am I listening to?»

Mycroft withhold a sigh.

«There has been a... kidnapping.» it was like the words were taken out of his mouth by force. «At the school your daughters are studying.»

«Kidnapping?» exclaimend Lestade. Mycroft hushed him.

«This is a secure line, but if you could avoid shouting that would be much better, thank you very much.»

Lestade looked ashamed, but continued.

«Are my daughters safe? And why don't you want to call the police? Who has been kidnapped?» he asked. Mycroft took a moment.

«I should not have called you.» he whispered, more to himself than anything else. He raised his voice again. «Your daughters are safe, and I cannot say who exactly has been kidnapped. If you want to collect the girls come as quick as you can, before any rumours start spreading.»

Lestrade was already standing and trying to get his coat on without letting go of the phone.

«Are you there, Mr Holmes? At the school?» asked the policeman, as he finally managed to insert his arm in the second and last sleeve.

«I am waiting for my brother. The schoolmaster had this terrible idea of running to him this morning, and I believe he will take the case. He has such a soft spot for children.» Mycroft explained, as he was chatting about the weather, even if Lestrade could feel a nervous note underneath that tone. «And this requires too much legwork for me. I will sort things out with the true interested party in this affair.»

Lestrade thought that must be someone quite important. He simply did not inquire more: the man at the other side of that conversation was not going to tell more, and if Sherlock was on this, the police could risk knowing when things were already resolved. Maybe.

«Will I see you there?» Greg asked, without knowing or realising why. Mycroft knew perfectly why this gave a smile on his face, which he quickly hid from the man coming towards him.

«It depends on how fast my brother will arrive.» he said.

Greg nodded.

«See you there, then.» he declared, and after a moment, added: «Thank you, Mr Holmes.»

«I owed you, as I recall.» said Mycroft, and ended the conversation before he or the other man could say more.

 

It was the end of the school day, and the kids were playing outside. Catherine and Elizabeth Lestrade had found themselves in the grounds, and were exchanging little stories and games with two other girls about their age. An older boy, wearing a different uniform, was a looking at the four of them, as he had been named their guardian or knight in shining armour. That is how Greg Lestrade found his children, getting to the big entrance hall. He just saw them and got in, to find someone to ask and sign to take them both back home. At the administrative office, the receptionist bid him to wait. The headmaster was not in yet, so he knew Mycroft was there. Well, so he knew he had to wait, he corrected himself.

Mycroft was indeed there, and Lestrade saw him talking to a woman. Who was she? She must have been not older than 40, dressed simply but elegantly. Her brown hair was perfect, her features were handsome and sweet, just as her smile and her brown eyes. Lestrade noticed, of course he did: his ex-wife was still a beauty, in a way, but not as beautiful as the mysterious woman talking to Mycroft. She was smiling, and slightly touching his arm, and he was smiling too, more warmly than usual. The pair reached the spot were Lestrade was, and the policeman stood up with a confused expression on his face. Mycroft could help smiling, but turned to the woman directly.

«Jane, may I present you Mr Lestrade?» he said, gallantly. The smiles of mysterious Jane were all for the inspector now. She presented her hand, and Lestrade, still confused, shook it.

«Pleasure to meet you, Mr Lestrade. I'm Jane Maitland.» said the woman, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile back at her.

«Lady Jane Maitland is the wife of my good friend David, Earl of Lauderdale.» Mycroft explained. «Here he comes.»

Greg, after somewhat breathing more easily, saw an equally handsome man approach them with two girls, hand by hand, and a boy following one step behind. The policeman recognized the children playing with his own earlier.

«How do you now our Myc, Mr Lestrade?» asked Jane, giving a quick look to Mr Holmes, evidently irritated by that nickname.

«Oh, well...» Greg started, but as ever in front of nobility he was a bit lost for words if it didn't involve proper policing work.

«He's a friend of Sherlock's.» Mycroft explained, raising his eyebrows in a sort of secret code to her. She giggled very sweetly.

«Oh, here are my girls!» she exclaimed, going towards them after excusing herself with “the gentlemen”.

Mycroft and Lestrade watched the happy family reunited. Even the eldest boy smiled when his little sisters greeted their mother, and he looked much like her.

«Have you already spoken with the receptionist?» asked Mr Holmes. Lestrade turned to him as his voice had distracted him from a vision.

«Oh, yeah, but we need to wait for the headmaster, apparently.» Greg explained.

«He has probably given instruction not to let any other boy or girl get away without his knowledge.» Mycroft whispered.

«Mycroft...» Lestrade ventured, not believing his dare: calling him with his Christian name? Mycroft himself was amazed, but definitely pleased. «I am not reporting anything to the police, because I know you and Sherlock would not do anything without purpose. But I believe I have gained the Holmes' brother trust by now: who has been abducted?»

His voice was Inspector Lestrade's one: resolute, professional, fierce and yet kind. Mycroft put on a guilty face for a moment, and then became as resolute as him.

«Arthur, the son of Duke of Holdernesse.» he finally said «His father doesn't want to make a fuss, and we have reason to believe it could be something related to terrorism. The matter must be handled with care, or it would be a political disaster.»

«Political disaster? And what about the boy?» Lestrade seemed not to understand why he had not mentioned him.

«That is my brother's expertise, I am here to keep things quite.» he replied, but felt, for maybe the first time, ashamed of hearing that tone of accusation and disappointment from the policeman. Lestrade resisted shaking his head, noting that face on the other man.

«Sherlock will find him. And I believe you could too. Are you not an expert in saving little boys from demons?» Lestrade asked, but Mycroft could not reply: Sherlock, John and a visibly shaken and stressed headmaster were approaching.

«Mycroft?» asked Sherlock, evidently annoyed by his brother's presence.

«Brother mine... I see you answered the headmaster's call.» his tone was mellifluous again.

«What are you doing here? And what is Lestrade? I believe no-one wanted to call the police!» continued the younger Holmes. The headmaster went white.

«No, no police, please Mr Holmes.» his voice was a shriek, and he was talking to Mycroft first, and Sherlock second.

«Inspector Lestrade is here to take his daughters home, as well as the Duke of Lauderdale, over there. I am sure you can sign the papers to let them go one day before the weekend.» Mycroft showed the headmaster ahead, to his office.

«But what if they saw something about... you know...?» said the man, nervously.

«I do not believe you have mixed dormitories, Dr. Huxtable, so we can reasonably let some girls go.» Sherlock added, his words as fast as his thought.

Sir David Maitland and his wife Jane approached, as the kids sat on the bench where Lestrade was before.

«It will be suspicious if you would not allow anyone to leave.» suggested Mycroft, in a lower tone. The Headmaster, Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, was convinced.

«Very well. I will give instructions to my secretary, as usual.» stated the man, getting to the receptionist and doing as he said.

David and Jane approached the desk, but Lestrade lingered a moment longer.

«If you need help...» he started.

«I do not see how, Lestrade. John is here just because he was bored at home.» Sherlock said.

«I am here to stop you from frightening young children and traumatize them.» Watson corrected him. Lestrade nodded, while the two of them got back to the headmaster and followed him to the boy's dormitories.

It was Mycroft and Lestrade again.

«Better go now.» said the latter. «Thanks. For the phone call.»

Mycroft nodded and found the tip of his umbrella strangely interesting.

«Anyway I guess I still owe you that pint.» he ventured. Lestrade smile.

«You certainly do.»

Mycroft watched him get to the desk too, and felt something flip in the cavity everyone thought empty. There may be troubles ahead...

He went away humming to himself a song by Irvin Berlin, thinking of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers swinging so elegantly in the moonlight.

 


	5. On the doorstep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry to have kept you waiting! I had an operation to my eyes, and I could not use the computer much... all is well, and I can finally throw away my glasses!
> 
> Enough about me, let's see what is happening after some time...

Jane Maitland, Lady of Lauderdale, had just finished her second cup of tea. She liked to drink one at the breakfast table with her husband, David, before he went out on his political duties. She missed the children a lot, when they were all at boarding school – one for the two girls and another for the boy – so David was always ready to indulge in her needs for comfort and company when she needed it. They had pancakes that morning: she cooked them especially, and so they were not too pretty. They were very tasty, though, and they both laughed at their funny shapes. He told her he loved her, and she knew he meant it, for he did not say in the usual, casual way as to bid farewell, but with meaning. Jane almost wanted to made him late for work, but thought better for that day. She kissed him goodbye, and decided to dedicate her time to herself that morning. She took a long bath, with bubbles and whirpools. She then dressed comfortably, feeling the best Lady/housewife in a shabby chic outfit of the entire universe. She then decided to get to work only the day after – she was a writer – and made cookies that she ate with the cup of tea she had just finished.

 

Jane was thinking of what to do next, when the doorbell rang. She went to answer it herself, even if the staff was just trying to do the same. She had a feeling about the person on the other side of the 18th century wooden front door needed to see only her.

She opened and there he was: Mycroft Holmes was standing on the threshold, fully dressed in a formidable suit, with the best tailored waistcoat underneath, his grandfather's pocket watch and his chain on the inner pocket of the latter, together with the best English handmade coat on top of it and his umbrella by his side. Everything in his demeanour screamed but he was silent and perfectly cold, outside. Jane looked at him for a moment, then, without saying anything, hugged him tightly for long moments.

«Oh, Myc...» she whispered. Feeling the pain in his heart almost physically, she let him go, and firmly gripping his hand with hers, gestured the staff to disappear and led him to her private Regency sitting room.

When they both entered, she did not let him sit on one of the couches, and he seemed like he had no idea what to do with himself. Jane moved towards him and helped him take off the coat and the jacket. She loosen his tie, and the buck on the back of his waistcoat. He seemed incapable of breathing more easily anyway.

«Jane, I-I messed up.» he stammered. As soon as he let those words out, his eyes watered, and his friend knew how bad it was. She tried to not say anything else and made him sit on the couch with her. She poured down some whisky for him and as he did not move towards it, she hugged him again.

«What is happening to me, Jane?» he asked. He sounded so lost...

«Oh, darling... I think this time you fell in love.» she explained. He moved to face her.

«I beg your pardon?» Mycroft almost exclaimed. He was crying but was not even aware of it.

«Is that man, isn't he? The policeman.» Jane continued. «The one I met at the school, when young Arthur Saltire was kidnapped?»

«Don't be ridiculous.» he exclaimed, getting out of that embrace and not looking at her. He took the glass but did not drink. He wanted to take away the tears from his face but could not acknowledge them, so could not remove them as he had not just cried and those tears did not exist.

«I am not ridiculous, Mycroft.» she replied, sounding a bit hurt. She didn't mean to sound hurt, but she was. She knew what kind of man he was, and how difficult it was for him to open up... well, how impossible it was. But at the same time she hated when he became so stubborn.

And he knew that when she used his full Christian name she was meaning business.

«You said you messed up. And you never use that kind of words. What happened?» she asked, getting closer and caressing his back. He sighed and rubbed his face with a hand, and used the other to drink the whisky in one sip.

«I think you're right, Jane. I may have fallen this time, and I don't know how to handle it.» he murmured, unable to look at her. She had a smile on her face, and he hoped it was not out of pity, not as much as it seemed.

«It is not a kind of fall that hurts.» she explained, as she was talking to her girls.

«I believe it does hurt.» Mycroft said, fiddling with his glass.

Jane stroke his cheek and kissed it. He relaxed a bit, like he never could with his mother, because she never did the same to him. His father was the cuddly one, and Mycroft never really permitted him to be, not after he turned 5 years old.

«You remember the boy, Lord Saltire.» he said, laying his back on the cushions.

«Yes, little Arthur. He was on the papers, too. I believe Sherly found him.» Jane replied, getting her legs under her and sitting more comfortably, curling up next to him, but letting him have his space.

«Sherlock found him, yes. Lord Holdernesse first suspected of one of the teachers in the school, a German. We found out he had connection with his ex-wife, but in fact he was only after the real kidnapper.» he explained, with only a hint of his usual mellifluous tone. It helped him explain, and helped him deal with those emotions he had probably never felt before about the matter. 

«It was the secretary, right?» she asked.

«Lord Holdernesse's secretary... and illegitimate first son, as we can say nowadays. He fathered the child many years before little Arthur, but he decide against owning him. So the secretary, James Wilder, decided to take his revenge, perhaps killing the boy and force the father, by menacing to raise a scandal, to make him heir to his fortune, title and everything that went with it.» continued Mycroft, putting down the glass and continuing to lean on the couch. Jane had never really seen him sitting on something without his back straight up, so much so that she believed he was wearing some sort of corset. He looked so down-hearted that she felt sorry for him, so sorry it almost hurt.

«It took all your manners, skills and diplomacy to hide all this from the press. I got just hints from the Daily Mail, and everyone knows it is almost all made up.» she said, encouraged him to go on with her kind brown eyes. He met her gaze. He knew what she wanted to know, so he exhaled as to shake away the burden on his heart, but failing to.

«It did. I worked closely with the police and the lawyers to try and not leak everything out... and I worked with Inspector Lestrade on this.» he continued, less confident and with a tone he did not recognized as his own. He thought that he had been right before: caring was not an advantage.

«Did you see him often?» she asked, acknowledging she was right about the cause of his coming to her house, but letting him speak freely: she didn't want to shy him away, she knew he needed to talk but could not do it too smoothly.

«You could call it often, but always for work.» Mycroft clarified. Jane did not strike him with a particular look, not at first. She did not raise an eyebrow or forced him to continue: she was waiting for him to go on with his tale, with the expression of someone that would not judge you, and that would love you no matter what. This seemed to be even worst for him, for a moment, but then he resolved to go on.

«Then he claimed his right on a pint I still owed him. It was a working class pub, a shallow, dull place in the corner of an ordinary street. We... kissed. I don't even know how it happened. Nobody saw us and we went our separate ways.» he told, gazing away from her.

«It happened again?» she asked, after a second.

«Yes.»

Jane got a little bit closer, still at a small distance from him, and took his hands.

«You became lovers.» it was not a question, and he knew it wasn't.

«We had sex, if that is what you mean, yes.» Mycroft said, trying to put up his usual cold and snobbish countenance. Jane seemed to know better, and she very well knew the different from sex and love.

«Then something happened, and here you are.» said she, knowing he was decided to say no more. «What can I do to help you, Mycroft?»

He took many moments to find something to say. But nothing came to his quick mind, and nothing was to be the answer. She hugged him again, letting his head rest on the crook of her neck.

«The children are all at school, and I will not tell David why you are here. You are welcome to stay in the west wing, the one with the 1920s furniture and decors you like so much.» she said, after a few minutes cuddling him, without him fighting it. She got even more worried for it.

Mycroft said nothing and, when she felt him getting tense under her arms, she let him go. He straightened his hair, closed the buckle at the back of his waistcoat and got himself all buttoned up again.

Mycroft Holmes behaved as nothing had ever happened, and told the most convincing lie to his friend David to explain his presence and was indeed invited again by him to stay for a few days. He accepted as if he didn't needed.

 

«You know that I did not ask too much?» she said, after escorting him to his room and stopping on the threshold before leaving him on his own. Mycroft loosen his tie.

«I know. It was not that difficult to understand. You want to ask me about it, but you know I will not open up. And there is nothing to be said about it.» he explained, like you explain a formula. She got inside the room, almost closing the door behind her.

«Mycroft, you are heartbroken.» she stated. He looked at her with no expression whatsoever, apart his fake, nobly blank face. He was about to start saying that she was wrong, but words failed him again.

«You know it, but you deny it.» Jane continued, evidently sorry for saying it and for it being true.

«I don't have a heart, Jane.» he replied, with a smile. She did not smile back at that false one.

«You do, and it is bleeding.» she confirmed, helping him take off his cufflinks. He seemed ready to break down again. 

«Have some rest, now, and tomorrow, when you are ready to be aware of this, we will find a way.» she decided. She could almost hear the clockworks of his brain at maximum speed.

Mycroft was about to reply that there was no solution, but she kissed his cheek again after stroking it, and he was soon alone.

 


	6. The game

The Red Lion Pub had even the most common name of pub names, and there they were. A Guinness and a vintage scotch, a policeman and... a serpent? How could he describe himself not to feel a commoner? He couldn't, of course. Had he not promised his brain to the Royal Society? They were certainly not keen on simpletons.

Yet, he was there, in the commonest pub for commoners, hiding in a dark and silent corner doing what, in fact, many Eton students did in dark and silent corners: kissing their mates on the lips, searching each other below their uniforms, and trying to forget that, if they get caught, their shame will not get to their families, but to bullies. Why spoil the fun when you can bribe a kid not to get his secret out? Mycroft had always been smarter, of course. Those poor infatuated boys he used to get his hands on were always the ones to take the shame and blame while him denied and went away without a single tear to be shed. He was too smart for that.

Lestrade never spoke to him before or after. He used to behave like nothing happened or was happening or was to happen. But after some time chatting or drinking, he got that look on his face, their eyes met and soon they were moving towards a blind spot, a secretive alcove, and he was pressing his lips against Mycroft's. The first time, it was almost cute: Lestrade could not find a way to approach him, as he was not used to a taller figure than his, without curves to put his hands on. But he wanted it so, even awkwardly, he kissed him. The second time, he was welcomed with an eager Mycroft, and things got easier. Not only easier, in fact. Night after night, when they had the chance to meet, Lestrade became more daring, and Mycroft was only happy to let him have him.

The police officer went from chaste to French kissing, from not even touching the other's jacket to search a way under the fabric of his trousers. He seemed lost if he was interrupted, like he was in a sort of trance or state, so Mycroft tried to forget that he was seated on a bench were maybe hundreds of drunken had sat or puked or did God only knew what, and let him go on with it. He tried not to pay attention to the squalid surroundings, or the eyes of the regulars, the only customers of such a pub. Eyes full of dullness, hands destroyed by labour, skin cooked and rough by sun and wind.

Finally, one of those nights, when the quantity of people was such that they could not really hide in any of the spots they usually did – as there was a game of some sort on the telly – they found a place to be. The ladies' room was never used, as there were no females frequenting the public house.

They found themselves in the dim lights of a clean toilet, apart from some dust, with cubicles and mirrors, as well as sinks. The place was not exactly romantic at all, but the urge for both of them was strong. Lestrade was about to panic, so Mycroft, attempting to catch the moment and not watch him fly away from him in pure disgust of himself, of the other man or the situation, grabbed him and, kissing him as fiercely and passionately as he could, dragged him to the corner between an empty space at the end of the cubicle, and the two sinks on the wall opposite the free one. They could see each others in mirrors if they turned, on the side opposite the cubicles, but Mycroft made sure he distracted Lestrade from watching, and securing himself to actually being able to.

They kissed again, with the rage and fury of pure instinctive passion. They were soon out of breath but that did not prevent them to start again, until the urge was too much and they search for each other's belt. Mycroft had to keep him busy: if Lestrade were to understand what he was about to do, he would certainly freeze and leave the room ashamed of himself. Mycroft had seen it before, and was not ready to let it happen this time. They did not strip more than it was barely necessary to get where they wanted to get, and even if their chests were separated by waistcoats and shirts, their lips and their sexes were not.

They were both dying for it, and yet the pleasure of denying themselves what they craved seemed to be even more enjoyable. They were both hard now, against each other, like a duel or a fight. The slightest hesitation from Lestrade and Mycroft was to take charge: he searched his inside pocket: not that he carried protection all the time, but sometimes he did. Distracting the policeman with his means of persuasion, the ones that did not involve talking, he put the condom on him: that move apparently made the final wall crumble down. Lestrade forced him to turn around, just as animals do. Pressing himself against Mycroft's back, he forced the oldest Holmes brother to stand facing the cubicle's thin wooden wall. His faced turned to the mirror, and he saw and felt Lestrade penetrating him with a single, hard movement. He let go of a moan mixed with a growl, but the rest of the customers noticed nothing, as the game was getting rough as what was happening in that toilet.

Lestrade slowly moved out, but not completely, and then thrust himself in again with a swift move. Mycroft punched the wood and bit his lip, as the other man continued to move slowly this way. God, if that was what he was capable of... he let curses and swears go as the other continued to move, faster and faster until he finally came and slipped out of the man, leaning on him with his forehead on his shoulder, breathless and speechless. Mycroft was too, as his legs barely made him stand after the orgasm he had experienced, and the proper mess he had made against that cubicle.

It had been dirty and squalid, but he couldn't wish it not to have happened. He was the kind of upper-class man that just cleaned himself swiftly and went away and on with his life as soon as the effects of intercourse permitted him, but not this time. This time it was Lestrade who, without a word and with the look of a thief in the night, took off protection and tossed it into a little bin, avoided his gaze and stormed out. Mycroft punched the wall again, but this time out of pure frustration.

“It will not happen again, of course it won't.” Why was he not fine with this idea, though?

 

Mycroft had not taken off any other clothing except for his shoes and the cufflinks Jane had put on the bedside table. He was laying on the bed, his hands under his head, looking at the top of the four-poster bed without the will or the energy to sleep. He kept thinking of that first time with Greg – yes, in his head he called him with his name, not surname – and he could not name what had happened after that night at the pub. What possessed him afterwards. He was so confused just because his head was avoiding the only true explanation, while his heart was too sorrowful to help.

 


	7. The analysis

«Heteroflexibility.»

«What?»

Sherlock sat elegantly in his armchair, with his cream coloured dressing gown, dark tailored trousers and a clean, light blue shirt. His hands were under his chin, and he seemed perfectly calm but also determined. Lestrade was on the edge of old John's armchair, confused and visibly anxious.

«Heteroflexibility is a form of a sexual orientation or situational sexual behavior.» explained the former in a dry, plain tone, as discussing a very interesting theory on coagulation of blood after death.

«Why exactly are you telling me this?» asked Lestrade, with a lifted eyebrow.

«Because you evidently sleep with my brother. It is obvious, of course, by your belt and the collar of your shirt.» Sherlock replied, almost raising his gaze and sighing.

Lestrade tried to deny it, but he was stopped before he could utter a word.

«His orientation has always been unmistakable, I must say, and his care in choosing sexual partners never failed in finding weak minded and low esteem personalities that would not utter a word about the relationship with those that would hinder my brother's prospects.» continued Sherlock. «This is why I wondered how it could be you, a police officer that I know personally and with which I work from time to time, who was Mycroft's latest lover. I then made my researches, and comparing symptoms and behaviours, I finally found the name of your exact sexual orientation. You are not a bisexual, you are not sexually curious, and you have always acted as a heterosexual. So heteroflexibility explains everything, you see.»

Lestrade gulped, trying to get his thoughts together.

«I only came here for a case...» he murmured, looking away from the man in front of him.

«The case is closed: it was the professor living downstairs, with a boar's tusk.» Sherlock replied, with a dismissive gesture of his hand, bored already. «Anything else?»

Lestrade stood up, scratching his nape.

«I don't know what to do now.» he muttered.

Sherlock left his armchair and faced him.

«What do you mean? You need to get back to the station and arrest the man!»

Lestrade frowned and then burst into crying. Tears flowed down his eyes and he covered his face, and Sherlock was completely lost. He looked around, recollecting his reason, and then gently patted his arm.

«My brother is not the easier man to deal with, I know.» he ventured. «If it can be of any consolation, he will probably tire of you soon enough, and you can get back to your normal life.»

This didn't seem to help, and Sherlock tried to get the policeman on the armchair again. After a few moments, Lestrade calmed down a bit. Sherlock offered a box of tissues they had for emotional clients, and he blew his nose, sighing again.

«I don't even know how it started.» he began to tell «But I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't.»

Sherlock was about to ask him not to go into detail, but Lestrade continued.

«Then he invited me to his house in the country. I felt... dirty, you know. I was the little secret he couldn't tell anyone about. I could not even say good-morning if I met him somewhere not safe or neutral. It was driving me nuts.»

Sherlock felt extremely awkward, but tried not to throw the man away. He had done that long enough, and John said he was beginning to be more human... if he only could fight his urge to lecture the human beings on his merits, primadonna style.

«Have you pronounced... vows and verses of some sort?» he ventured, trying to sound casual.

«What do you mean “vows and verses”?» replied Lestrade.

«Has he expressed feelings of love, promises in words to you?» continued Sherlock.

«N-no, nothing of the sort.» was the awkward answer the policeman gave, not looking at his friend.

«At least he is behaving normally.» Sherlock stated. «Did you tell him you love him?»

Lestrade turned to him then.

«No, absolutely not!» he exclaimed. «I am not even sure I do.»

And in that moment he realised he did. That all those days and nights, all those words unspoken and all that sex involved, in dark corners or ample rooms... it was not something out of nothing. He had fallen in love with the “serpent” of the Holmes family.

Sherlock seemed to know better too.

«John thinks I do not understand love. I always understood the chemistry of it. Now I think I also know the psychology.» he said. «Go home, Greg. Rest. My brother is not stupid, and when he will come to his senses again, things will resolve.»

Lestrade nodded, after recovering for being called with his name: he knew Sherlock did not use it lightly.

«Thanks, Sherlock.»

«Go and arrest that professor. It won't take long before he kills again if you don't.» said the youngest Holmes, taking up his violin and, apparently, forgetting about everything else.

Lestrade went away on the strong and optimistic notes of Vivaldi's violin concertos.

 


End file.
